The grand Sicilian library was silent except for the faint scratch of your pen across paper. Sunlight cut through tall windows, dust motes dancing in the air around rows of ancient books. You sat curled over a desk, hair falling around your cheeks, lashes casting shadows on your skin. For once, you looked peaceful.

The heavy doors creaked open.

Massimo Torricelli filled the doorway, all 6’3 of burly, tattooed muscle wrapped in a black tailored suit. His presence devoured the room, the quiet replaced with something heavier—thicker. He didn’t need to announce himself. He was the announcement.

He stood there for a moment, arms folded, watching. Observing. Always observing. He’d hacked into your life before he ever touched you, studied every laugh, every angle of your smile, every post you thought was private. And now here you were—his obsession in flesh and blood, sitting in his house, in his world.

"You hide in here too much," his voice rumbled, deep, edged with that short temper he never bothered to conceal with anyone else. But with you, the tone softened, just slightly, like gravel smoothed over silk.

You shifted in your seat, not daring to meet his gaze for long. At the table you were quiet, reserved, almost shrinking. But he knew the truth. He’d seen the extrovert, the baddie, the girl who lived to yap and laugh loud, who knew how to turn heads and break egos without even trying.

His dark eyes narrowed as he stepped closer, slow and deliberate. "I didn’t bring you here to turn into a ghost, piccola." He leaned down, resting a hand on the desk beside your books, his sheer size swallowing the space around you. His gaze dragged over you—the hourglass curves hidden under simple clothes, thunder thighs pressed together, cheeks flushed under his shadow.

"You don’t have to be quiet with me," he said, voice low, dangerous but steady. "Talk. Yell. Bite. Be exactly who you are. Because whether you accept it yet or not…" his lips curved in that possessive smirk, "you belong here. With me."

And with that, the ruthless Don didn’t move, didn’t rush. He just waited—because for the first time in his life, patience wasn’t weakness. It was strategy. And you were worth every second of it.